the bathroom window

Old Republic does do an excellent job deconstructing the binary interpretation of the Force, and of morality in general. Playing Empire doesn't limit the PC to Dark Side choices only, and similarly a Republic character - even a Jedi - can choose Dark or Light options. And the Light isn’t always the best (or even Good) solution. TOR is a fascinating addition to the Star Wars series, and provides more depth, more color, more EVERYTHING than Episodes 1-3 combined. Not that I’m a bitter, disappointed fan or anything. Ahem.

I think my problem may lie in the format of TOR. A MMORPG is seemingly bigger than a single-player counterpart. It’s designed to take into consideration the choices made by thousands, if not millions, of players. But it’s this very expansion that limits it. If that makes sense. Which it might not.

Ok, so, like, Revan is the main character of Knights of the Old Republic. Who Revan is is almost completely decided by the player. From gender to appearance to background to friends to choices to destiny, the player defines who Revan is, and even how the rest of the in-game universe views Revan.

This degree of customization works for a single-player game, because only that single player interacts with that world. For TOR, certain canons have to be established; to continue using Revan as an example, there'd be no way that every player's interpretation of Revan could be implemented, so that character was reduced to a single version. And that Revan is certainly not my Revan. In fact, canon!Revan completely destroys my version of KotOR.

Which isn’t awesome, but I understand Bioware's angle. I don’t judge TOR poorly because of the Revan decisions; however it provides an example as to how such an open-ended and massive universe can sometimes feel limiting. Like Revan had to be narrowly defined, so do all the characters and all the action in TOR - because it all has to fit into the same universe. Does that make sense to anyone who doesn’t live in my head. Arrggghhh wish I were more articulate.

But yeah, that doesn't mean that I cry myself to sleep or wail away at the Star Wars gods. TOR is an immersive, extensive, exciting game that I can’t drag myself away from. I'm in love with my characters, with the NPCs, and hell, even with a lot of other players' characters. The Imperial Agent storyline is a better piece of espionage fiction than most thrillers out there. The Jedi Consular storyline is developing in ways I never could have imagined. And the Smuggler storyline is creating a character who'll be out-scoundreling Han Solo. And those are just the plots I've played so far; each and every class looks fascinating.

...That damn conversation bug is a killer though. Bioware y u so buggy. You're putting Bethesda to shame.

Ugh, been so busy with the end of the semester. Working on the last assignment for my Reference class, still have one paper for Archives.

I've been meaning to make a post about the amazing bands I've seen this year, but I'm lazy and have no time, so I never got around to writing about the awesome groups and their awesome shows. We went to a lot of concerts this year, and of the new bands that I saw in 2011, my two favorite are Slow Club and The Head and the Heart.

Slow Club's a bizarre duo, a British folky, pop-y group. The New York Times loves both these albums - Their second one, Paradise, just came out in September and hot damn is it good. The sophomore album can be troublesome for a lot of bands, but the follow up to their debut Yeah, So is amazing. It's hard to explain why they're so damn good, but a big part of it is the weirdly awesome turns that the lyrics take. One song on their first album has the line "if you came back as the deep sea / I'd come back as the salt." It's so... so... quirky, but I don't mean to be dismissive. We saw them in a tiny little venue stuffed full of drunk hipsters. A great show, memoriable for a number of reasons. Par example, I was admiring the band-related swag and picked up one of the shirts. "Does this come in women's size?" I asked. "No," came the reply, "they're one-size-fits all." I turned to thank the guy and then realized I was speaking to one of the lead singers. And felt like an idiot. The pattern of being a doofus in front of people I admire continues!

The Head and the Heart is an American band. More folky than Slow Club, definitely. Picture lots of beards, lots of knitted hats. We saw them in a good size hall - Great sho with great acoustics. I'd been listening to the album NON STOP before the show and seeing them live was not a disappointment. And then I started obsessively titling stories after their lyrics. They're working on their album #2, and from what we heard at the show, it's going to be a great follow up to their first. This is driving through the country music, it's for listening to in the sun. It certainly gets melancholy at times, but even then, it's still a validation for the simple beauty in life.

Oh, and hay, Amazon's got an amazing Cyber Monday deal on The Head and the Heart today.

BB
Working on: Getting the boys back to school.
Word for this chapter: 283

The plot's gone hay-wire. I'm trying to figure out how much plot this 50k needs to encompass. In my imaginary world of make-believe awesome, this book is part of a series... Just never planned how long this series was going to be. I need to figure out where the story is going to be at 50k so I can sort out the pacing.

Catching up on NaNo this weekend. November's been a busy month - lots of school work and other responsibilities - and now I have to contend with both Skyrim and Skyward Sword. Video games! I ask you!

This draft is awful. Maybe a smidge better than last years, but still eye-bleedingly bad. Most of the cast is nameless (I've got Name, Namer, Dickface, Name, Nambles, Name, and Name-Name), half the word count is from directionless conversation ("What do you want to do today?" "I don't know - What do you want to do?"), and I've jumped forward in time so many times that I completely lost when the story is taking place. And also while I might be able to hit the 50k, the story won't be anywhere near done. So all in all, a relatively successful NaNo! I wish I were one of those people who are able to develop perfect manuscripts, who plot everything in their heads and then merely have to let their fingers walk over the keyboard to get it all down. My method of writing is to vomit up letters and hope that words come out of the mess.

One of the listservs I belong to is dedicated to rare books, covering all sorts of topics from new catalogs, advice, and events in book-related fields. Late last week a new member submitted a question about a recent purchase of his. I actually read the responses first, then had to go through to find the original post: He had bought a book (wouldn't say what book) from a reputable dealer (wouldn't say who) and according to his research (wouldn't say what research he did), believed that it was worth far more (wouldn't say how much) than he had paid for it. He wanted to know how to care for it until he was ready to sell, and how to go about selling said book.

The list EXPLODED. The first 10 or so replies were all indignant, some snarky. Like: "The odds of you (a neophyte) buying a book from a recognized, established dealer and 'turning' it in a short time, and making a profit, are doubtful at best. Investment has been proven over the ages to be a very poor reason to buy a book. Most of your questions like "Should I open the package?", and "Where do I keep it?" are simplistic in the extreme. Silly. And choices you can make on your own. How old are you? Ten."

More got involved, some condoning the early replies, like: "I think most of us would, and do, bend over backward to encourage genuine bibliophily. Why we should facilitate ignorant financial speculation in the world of books is beyond me." Others condemned the tone of some of the posters. And them some people started arguing if one should sell (or buy) books to make money, then a debate erupted over semantics, if "investment" is the same as "speculation."

It's like an episode of Fandom Wank. And they're still battling it out.

I've learned a lot from it though; some posted resources for beginner collectors, and I've found some helpful blogs and associations. I don't buy books with the intention of selling them later, and certainly don't expect to turn a profit. I do consider them investments however. My library is my kingdom, etc etc. I've been buying books since I first got an allowance, but I don't I really started collecting until a few years ago. And that's "collecting" in a very loose, very informal usage.

Veld kicked the blanket off in his sleep and Charade grumbled as she pulled it back up from the floor, wrapping it around her shoulders before pressing against Veld's back. She could feel a headache thorbbing behind her eyes - too much wine with dinner - and buried herself deeper in the nest of pillows and sheets, blocking out the sunlight that was making its way gamely through the room's shadows.

When she got up she stumbled through a pile of their clothes, wadded up in clumps where they're thrown them off the night before. She kicked one of Veld's boots off her skirt and dusted it off before yanking it over her legs.

"Oi, where you off to?"

Veld propped himself on one elbow. His eyes were as red as his hair, which was standing up like he'd been struck by lightning, and Charade wondered again why she bothered with him at all. Mornings were for regretting the night before, she thought as she adjusted the skirt around her hips. Maker she needed a drink.

"Well?"

"Winger wants us all back. Someone's been taking out the gang; we need to re-group." She found her shirt under her boot and pulled it free, flapping it clean. Cleaner, at least, she thought as her nose crinkled at the smell. Dust motes floated in air for a moment, and Charade thought of the snow she'd used to play in as a child, when they'd lived in Orlais. But then she shook her head and slipped into her shirt. Didn't do any good to reminisce.

"Come back to bed. Winger won't miss you." Veld stretched his long arms above his head and flexed his sleek muscles, a display she suspected was more for his benefit than hers. Still... Charade grabbed her boots as she walked back to the bed, then sat on the edge. Veld's hands were warm on her back and she let him slide them up her spine, move to her breasts. When he started kneading like he was making bread though, Charade bent down, dislodging his hands, and stuffed her feet into her boots.

He snorted and rolled further away, dragging the blankets with him. Hay poked out from the seems of the mattress ant it scratched under Charade's knees as she worked on the boots laces and buckles. When she was done she stood over Veld, tracing the shape of his lean body under the covers, resting on the bulge between his legs. And then she leaned over him, jamming her hand down on his chest as she grabbed her bow and quiver from the other side of the bed. He yelped a curse that she ignored.

"Business before pleasure," she said with a shrug as she walked to the door. Not that being in the Invisible Sisters was much of a job. But not that being in bed with Veld was all that great. One day she'd do better. She owed her mother that much.

12. OTP
UGH. SO MANY. For main character/companion, it's f!Cousland/Alistair. They're just so right together. Alistair's pure devotion to Cousland is so heart-warming. He's so dedicated; he doesn't see anyone else but her. My Cousland is fiercely protective of him; he represents the life she's supposed to leave behind, the life that as a Grey Warden, she no longer has a right to. Cousland flips the world upside to give Alistair the happy ending he's always wanted.

Following closely behind is Hawke/Anders, naturally. Both f! and m!Hawke... Can't decide which gender I prefer more. My f!Hawke is similar to Cousland in her attempt to create a haven for her lover. She wants stability, or at least a sense of control. As a mage, dude!Hawke is more concerned with just surviving. So when everything comes crashing down, f!Hawke loses much more than her male counterpart. But I love her she's willing to make that sacrifice for Anders.

For NPCs, I've been digging Connor/Fenyriel. And then there's Bethany/Leliana, Varric/Anders, Cousland/Anders, Wade/Herren, and Sigrun/Varric. And Aveline/Donnic. And Hespith/Branka. And Fenris/Sebastian.

( The rest of the questions )

She stayed their wedding night - of course she did, what kinda bride would go runnin' off when the hall was still filled with guests? - but it didn't take long for her to stop smilin' at him and start spendin' all her hours in her lab. Laboratory like she was some sort of topsider mage or somethin', with her inventions to keep her company. Course it wasn't just her tools keepin' her occupied. Heh, though maybe she and Hespith used a few of those tools...

Everyone said she's done with him, but that didn't mean that Oghren was done with her. When she stopped comin' to bed at all, not even when it was his birthday or their blighted anniversary, he found himself a bottle instead of another wife and drank and drank and drank until it got easier to convince himself that all was all right in their house and that she'd come crawlin' back, beggin' and moanin' for him again.

They weren't dreams, since dwarves didn't mess with the Fade like surfacers, but sometimes he'd get in one of these dazes from all the beer and the echoes in their empty home that his sword made scraping against the stone sounded like her voice sayin' his name.

---

The marriage wasn't a farce, not exactly, not from the beginning. Oghren's charm was like a whetstone, rough and grinding, but it made her sharper, and she left their "battles" with grins and flushes, and sometimes beard-burns on her chest that itched under her armor.

The invention - Ancestor's take it, it was perfect and was worthy of a Paragon's title - filled a void that once had been filled by Oghren. He was always there getting in the way, upsetting her notes and knocking over experiments. When she lay in bed her head whirred with new ideas, new trials to start, and her hands twitched like they were moving for her tools, even when they ached for rest. She snapped and him, shoved him out of the way before her burnt down her bench, the whole blighted house. He whined when she didn't want to stop for a blighted dinner, threatened when she wouldn't leave for some blighted Proving. It got easier to just ignore him, and Branka got good enough that his presence didn't interrupt her studies, not even when he started to plead.

When she read about the Anvil, there was a click in her like a lever being pulled into place. Hespith stayed with her in the Shaperate, holding up candles for her to read the ancient tomes, bringing ink for her to finish her notes, rubbing her shoulders when Branka cracked them hard enough to dislocate them. And she listened. And she learned. And, unlike Oghren, Hespith believed.

It was no question, then, what Branka chose to take with her into the Deep Roads and what Branka left behind.